Green Eyes
by dont-take-me-to-jersey
Summary: Sam is having compelling dreams that have led the brothers to England, although he's being cagey about exactly what it is that's brought him here. Meanwhile, Lara Croft finds a psychotic stranger in a field and in New York, Sara Pezzini is having Witchblade troubles. Everything is connected, but how? Tomb Raider/ Supernatural / Witchblade
1. Prologue

_Set during Supernatural Season 6 Episode Four: early 2010 – this is the case the Winchester's rang Bobby up about just before the episode ended..._

Hi, I wrote this one when I was around 14. It's a cross over of Supernatural, Witchblade and Tomb Raider (2001 movie-verse)

(It's not complete, but in time I will finish this up when I have more creative energy! Thanks for reading :D)

PROLOGUE

The heater of the Impala was broken and all Sam and Dean had for heat was two layers of plaid shirts.

"I don't like England. Snow. Snow. And snow." Dean grumbled.  
"It snows in America too Dean." Sam yawned hugely, hoping to have fallen into a cat nap earlier but unfortunately not having managed.  
"And I keep forgetting about the chips thing. Crisps. How stupid is that? They're chips. They call fries chips and chips crisps?"

Sam looked up from his drawing and at his brother wearily, wondering if the effect of the Phenergan Dean had taken for the flight was still lingering and putting him in this stupor. That, plus a 400 hundred-odd mile drive made for one hell of a cranky Dean.

"I just hope this 'urgent feeling' of yours is right Sammy."


	2. Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

"FBI." Dean Winchester said breezily.  
"What's that?" the elderly lady replied, squinting at the young men thrusting black square things at her on the doorstep through her thick, thick glasses.  
"Err, Forensic… British Inspectors?" Sam said with thinly veiled uncertainty.  
"Are you Mrs. Havisham- I mean, Halingham?" Dean asked clumsily, Sam giving him the eyes.  
"Yes."  
"Do you mind if we come in?"  
"Alright then, do you want any tea me loves?" She went back inside and left the door open.

"British people; got to love 'em." Dean murmured before stepping over into the threshold of her home. Dean made a beeline for a green fabric sofa and spied a selection tin of biscuits on the coffee table. Sam sternly shook his head, Dean ignored him and shoved three whole shortbreads into his face.

"I've got custard creams out in the kitchen darling." she nodded towards Dean. He threw her a guilty smile.  
"We were wondering what you knew about this." Sam took out a hand-drawn picture from his blazer pocket.  
"Oh hang on darling, let me get me reading glasses." she paced over to and hunched above a bureau, scrabbling about until she produced a small leather case, snapped it open and put on her glasses.

She took the picture from Sam. On it was a silver bracelet with a large green stone set on the top, Celtic looking and ornate in design.

"That's a very pretty bracelet, my Ramona has one just like it."  
"Is Ramona your granddaughter?"  
"Yes, last I heard she wanted to sell it. Heaven knows why, I think it's lovely." the lady said despondently.

Dean stopped munching and looked to Sam in alarm.  
"Is it possible we could speak to Ramona about it?"  
The woman looked puzzled.  
"Why?"

"Because we, ah, think it was stolen from someone"  
"Oh dear, oh dear oh dear." the woman tutted. "Not again. Is she in trouble?"  
"No, no, we just want to clean this up. Could you give us her address?"

Sam and Dean got Ramona's details from the grandmother and left the property.  
"Sammy, I want an explanation and a bacon sandwich. What's with this bracelet thing?"  
"Dean," Sam began, opening then closing his mouth with no more words coming out. "Trust me on this, I'll get you a sandwich, I'll dig out the computer and everything'll be just peachy."

At Ramona's flat the pair repeatedly tried the doorbell and knocker a million times yet, annoyingly, got no response. It took Sam to physically get to his knees and peer through the letterbox to finally determine the place was empty.  
"Nobody's home." Dean narrated pointlessly, squaring his shoulders in preparation to break it down. "Whoa Dean." Sam grabbed his shoulder and stopped him.  
"What?"  
"Cool it. Wait."

Dean, obviously deflated, watched as Sam extracted a cluster of keys and things on a metal ring from his pocket and examine each one in turn, comparing them against the lock.  
"Always a Yale." Sam muttered under his breath.  
"Uh a whatnow?" Dean squinted at the bronze key Sam held between his thumb and forefinger. Bizarrely, Sam pushed it half in the keyhole, removed one of his shoes and gave the key a hard bang with the sole. He twisted it a bit and the door clicked open.

"Bump key." He announced modestly, pocketing his shiny mass of lock picking tools.  
"Isn't that illegal?"  
"Not as illegal as forced entry and credit card fraud, but I guess."  
"Yeah okay Houdini, just don't lose your shoe."

Sam childishly sneered as he re-shoed and followed Dean into the flat.

Thick black pulley blinds starved the living room of all sunshine bar two streaks at each end that it didn't quite cover. With a flick of a light switch the dark tobacco-fragranced dungeon became a dingy orange tobacco-fragranced dungeon. One glance allowed the boys to soak in a collection of dark bloody band posters with suicide-inspired names pasted on the walls and an army of model dragons scattered around the room.

"Goth." The pair thought aloud at the same time, the black walls complimenting black carpet and a black sofa with black cushions. The coffee table was styled to look like a Ouija board, but looked thankfully unused except for the pizza boxes piled high and empty Gordon's gin bottles.

Tacked on a mirror above a vanity table overcrowded with perfume bottles was a bunch of party photos, every time featuring a brunette with dyed pink highlights, dressed in either black and burgundy corsets or dark dresses and fishnets varying from photo to photo. On closer inspection, the green and silver bracelet could be seen in all of them on her wrist.  
"Dean, think this is her?"

Dean meanwhile was investigating a heart-shaped beige jewellery box decorated with gold fleur-de-lis. In it were gold and silver chains, rings set with black onyx, various chokers and a bunch of synthetic diamond earrings still on the cardboard – but no fancy bracelet. He put the box down and peered at the photo.  
"Fits grandma's description." Dean shrugged.  
"So girl's not here, bracelet's not here, now what?"  
"Now? Now it's sandwich time."  
"Good idea Dean, and I know just the place."  
"You do?" Dean raised a suspicious eyebrow. The only tell was Sam's sly smile as he folded the picture and put it in his top pocket.

"The Graveyard Café? Are you kidding me? This country is so… Weird." Dean looked uneasily around him from the picnic bench at a sea of headstones. "You don't have a restaurant in the middle of a friggin' cemetery."

A slender arm placed a bacon sandwich in front of Dean on the table and he immediately calmed down and smiled at his plate. Sam thanked the waiter, but as soon as the guy had left he got up and abandoned his iced tea. Dean rolled his eyes and grabbed his food, a trickle of bacon juice running down his sleeve as he followed Sam.

"Can't we even sit for even five minutes?" Dean grumbled.  
"Dean, we're here for the case, remember?"  
"No, since when?"  
"Since I was telling you in the car and you blotted me out with Hot Blooded?"

Dean didn't get a chance to complain further as Sam pushed through a door marked 'STAFF ONLY'. A young woman with a black bob was pouring a bag of unbranded frozen chips into a fryer, stopping what she was doing as Sam strode over to her with his badge already out.  
"Excuse me, are you Gracie Jafee?"  
"Yes." She looked startled, panicked at the sight of their officalness.  
"Hi I'm Cole Smith, this is my partner-"  
"Jay Winston." Dean looked so pleased with himself. Sam looked on the verge of a breakdown; he didn't know many FBI agents covered in bacon grease and an I.D. that nine times out of ten was a poorly disguised pop culture reference. Still, he rolled with it.

"How can I help?" Said the woman uneasily.  
"We understand you worked with Ramona Halingham?" Sam took out the address book he had swiped from Ramona's flat, Gracie's name written in a thick scrawl underneath the word 'work'. At the same time he showed her one of the party pictures from the mirror, Gracie's and Ramona's face smiling side-by-side clutching drained shot glasses. She looked at both suspiciously.

"I saw her last well over a month ago. She got sacked, ennit." She gave the address book and photograph back.  
"How did she get fired?"  
"Stopped turning up didn't she, went a bit bonkers. She keeps goin' out to this field near where my step-brother lives at exactly 10 at night, and just stands and stares at the sky for an hour, then leaves. Like the woman's possessed."

Sam and Dean exchanged a knowing look. They'd got this sussed.  
"Do you mind if we have your brother's address?" Dean handed her back the address book and fished out a pen from his suit pocket. Eyeing the pair of them she reluctantly scribbled it down.


	3. Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

"When you want to kill a zombie, you shoot it in the head. Right between the eyes or a direct hit to the back of the skull. Lara, shooting one in the foot is about as helpful as…" Bryce looked at Lara's split screen. "Your pointless spinning." Lara's character abruptly stopped its endless circles.  
"It's a tactic."  
"Called?"  
"Called 'Bryce Should Shut Up Before the Playstation Gets Rammed Up His Arse'"

Sooner or later however Lara would have to admit that she was crap at Bryce's zombie game, and this was backed up exactly seventeen seconds later when she died and GAME OVER bled onto the screen in dripping green letters.

"You're awful." Bryce shook his head and ejected the disk.  
" _You're_ awful." Lara said, folding her arms. "I could have had them."  
"Yeah. Right." Bryce mock-agreed.

Lara sat and had a sulk.  
"I want ice cream."  
"It's four in the morning."  
"I don't care."

It turned out neither did Bryce care much for socially accepted eating times and tucked into the Häagen-Dazs with Lara as early grey morning light flooded into the kitchen.  
"Do you fancy taking them new quad bikes for a whirl?"  
"What, now?" Lara said, cocking her head in surprise.  
"Why not?" Bryce said, a sly grin emerging on his face

"Hi." Dean greeted the receptionist with a cardboard smile. "Uh, there's no T.V. in our room?..."  
"No." The man shook his head sharply. "None of them do."  
"Okay." Dean blinked, registering the shock. "Do you know where your bar?..."  
"There isn't one."  
"Really? No bar?"  
"The Red Hound is a 10 minute walk from here." The receptionist offered with a point left.  
"Ice machine?"  
"Nah."  
"Pool"?  
"Nope."  
"Does this place have friggin' anything?"  
"Dean-" Sam interrupted.  
"This is an E-tap hotel sir," Dean almost expected the guy to end with 'what did you expect?'

"Um, you got wi-fi right?" Sam asked, fingers crossed behind his back.  
"You get 10 minutes free, after that it's a fiver per hour." He extended a card to Sam which he took and stared at dumbly for a second.  
"Thanks."

The pair started walking.  
"How come no T.V. wasn't such a problem last night?"  
"Sammy I was so tired I could've slept out on the sidewalk and not cared, but if I'm payin' for a room it should at least have a T.V. And what was with the sheets and blankets? This place is neigh-on medieval."  
"You complain too much. I think it's great; everyone's real polite here."

Dean ignored him, and continued on his mini-rant.  
"Anyway, how much even is 'a fiver'? Do I buy a truck or a pencil sharpener with that?"  
"Oh Dean, how would you survive without me?" Sam mused.  
"A damn sight easier that's how. God I miss America."

Lara's new quad bikes drove like a dream through the muddy field a few miles up the road, Lara and Bryce both covered head to toe in mud and smiles as brilliant as the early morning sun. A couple of times the quads would roll over, but they'd just pick themselves up. Being the children they were they quickly forgot that four grand's worth of equipment shouldn't be used to play bumper cars. But what the hell, why not?

"Ow!" Bryce bit his lip as Lara slammed into him, and he countered the attack by spinning the car around in a semi-circle to hit her before she pulled away. The new off-roaders were gathering scratches and dents and their once shiny black was now a filthy brown. Lara cared little, none even, as she reversed into Bryce's quad and the number plate fell off.

For this he slammed into her side but as he tried to move forward he found himself stuck, wedged into the mud, the wheels moving and the engine letting out a whine of displeasure. "Wait, wait wait!" too late, _slam!_ and the wheels of Bryce's quad sank in even deeper.

He took his foot off the accelerator and waded towards her. He watched as his trainers disappeared and looked up at her like a lost emu. Lara rolled her eyes, shutting off her engine. She offered a mud-caked hand and yanked him out. They beamed stupidly at each other.

"I want some crisps now." Bryce said almost feebly as he absorbed the state he and his vehicle was in.

Once the quad was rescued the two headed for the newsagents, getting a scornful look from the shop keeper. It was a struggle to take him seriously when they went to pay, handing over notes with muddy fingerprints on. Only when they returned to the field did they realise they had been there for hours, the midday sun bleaching the sky a bright white. They sat on a mound of dry dirt and munched on their snacks.

"You know what?" "What?" Bryce spewed bits of crisp as he spoke, wiping them away with a swipe of his hand that left a trail of mud over his lips. "You need to be outside more." He stopped chewing.  
"You should be _inside_ more. You pay a metric shit-tonne of money for a house that you're not even in ninety percent of the time."  
"Oh yeah, the house that I pay for so you can sit in it all day and build an army of Pepsi-can robots. The house I pay for you to flood the sink with?"  
"That only happened once."  
"And it'll happen again."  
"D' you know Hillary has a life-time ban on me doing the washing up now?" Bryce took pride in that, she could see. "And the hovering, and the polishing and…" he counted on his fingers then suddenly stopped.

"Come to think of it I'm banned from quite a lot of things."  
"You know for a bloke who fixes computers for a living you've got a track record of being shit with anything else."

Bryce stared off into the distance, the conversation fading away as he watched something curiously.  
"What're you looking at?" Lara jousted for a position beside his head, squinting across the field for something unusual.  
"There's a woman staring at us." He pointed straight ahead.  
"Well I can't see anything." Lara strained her eyes harder.  
"You need your eyes tested. It's well creepy."  
"Oh, oh I see her now." Her yellow dress blended in with the grass just beyond the muddy wasteland the pair had been driving in.

"Do you think she's alright?"  
"Maybe that's what she's thinking about us." Lara looked at her and Bryce's sodden clothes, wondering if it decreased their sanity points.  
"Maybe she wants to have a go at us."  
"Maybe we should find out." Lara stood up and jumped down from the mound, Bryce in hot pursuit.

As the pair got closer to her they could sense something was off. Her yellow dress was grubby and frayed at the hems from so much wear, her dyed hair showing signs of re-growth, fingernails uncut and dirty.  
"Excuse me, are you alright?" Bryce asked her in a calm, slow tone. Her stare didn't move. Her eyes were fixed on Lara. "Is there somebody we can call for you?" He gestured with two fingers put to his ear. Bryce, having got nowhere, looked to Lara for help.  
"What's your name?" Lara tried.

Nothing.

"Is there any way we can help you?" The woman's stare only intensified as Lara opened her mouth, a sour, accusatory stare. Lara was starting to feel uncomfortable now. "Do you need us to call an ambulance for you?" Lara placed a soothing hand on the woman's shoulder and she turned feral, Bryce jumping in to absorb the attack before her nails sank into Lara's shoulder, instead piecing the flesh of his upper arm, taking him to the ground.

"Lara get back to one of the quads." Bryce grunted as he held the crazed lady down, her limbs wriggling and legs kicking. Lara had no such intention, pushing the woman off of him and stamping on her stomach, winding her for long enough for the two to run back to their vehicles.

"Are you okay?" Lara looked to the bleeding crescent-shaped indents on Bryce's arm.  
"I'm fine." He gave it a nonchalant rub like he'd forgotten about it. Bryce threw a glance back, and weirdly the woman was back on her feet, a bit dustier from rolling around on the ground, but otherwise no different. And she was still staring.

"Let's go home. I don't fancy getting attacked by an escaped loony again."  
"I feel kind of bad about leaving her."  
"I don't."

Lara stopped walking. He looked to Lara, sighed, and attempted to quash her concern.  
"She'll be fine. Ring the police when we get in, ask if there's any missing persons from that Heatherly Institute. Now come on, let's go." Bryce had got in and was already revving his engine as Lara continued to look back, still consumed by the stranger's hateful glare.


	4. Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

"Oh no, no vending machines, but you do get a fancy-ass metal… thing…"  
"Dean it's a pants presser. Be careful, that can-"  
"Ow! God damn son of a!" Dean stuck a scorched finger in his mouth.  
"-Burn you." Sam finished, a grin slithering across his face.

The day had lagged on like a slug up a garden path. Dean had an incredibly low boredom threshold, the fruit machine at the Red Hound had robbed him of a good £20 or more (he wasn't at liberty to tell Sam exactly how much) and not kept him occupied for all that long. And of course, despite Sam having his laptop, he wanted to hold on to his precious 10 minutes in case they were needed. Pig sick of playing Cut the Rope on his flashy phone, Dean sat and stared dejectedly at the spot on top of the bedside table between the two twin beds where a television should have been.

Dean jumped a little more than he should have when Sam's phone played a snippet of Smoke on the Water, even though he was supposed to have been expecting it. Even though they knew that meant it was 7.00 they both simultaneously checked their watches. From under his bed Dean grabbed a canvas bag with a grunt.

"Holy water?"  
"Check." Dean nodded.  
"Salt?"  
"Check."  
"Exorcism script?"  
"Printed a fresh one this morning."  
"Ghostbuster vac?"  
"I wish. Now you're just bein' stupid. Can we go already?"

Sam grabbed his own bag of demon-slaying necessities and headed for the door, leaving Dean to kick the trouser press farewell.

Sitting by the fireplace Lara was gently playing with the black plastic bracelet around her wrist. Because of course, the last thing she wanted to do was break it. From the other side of the room, Bryce was watching her. She met his gaze to see him grinning smugly.

"I can't believe you're actually still wearing that." He marvelled.  
"Still got yours?" She could see, worryingly, there was nothing on _his_ wrist. Bryce lifted his leg onto the coffee table and pulled up one leg of his jeans to reveal a white band around his sock.

Hillary trotted in and Bryce quickly yanked his trouser leg back down, crossing his other leg over it.  
"You alright?" Bryce asked casually, Lara hiding a grin behind her hand.  
"Heatherly called back. Nobody has escaped there, but they've assured me that they're looking into it."  
"Thanks Hilllary. Let me know if there's anything more."

Hillary left.

"What, you aint going to do anything about it?"  
"I don't want to get involved."  
"Really?" Bryce seemed genuinely surprised.  
"I am curious but I don't want to go tracking down a possible escaped nutcase or convict in the middle of the night. Especially one that's tried to attack us already."  
"I'm glad. You'd be mental otherwise, and I certainly wouldn't be coming. I mean who the hell would?"

"So what, we're like, just gonna put her in the back of the car?" Dean looked at Baby's back leather seats protectively.  
"Possessed or not we can't lose that bracelet."  
"Well I wouldn't really know Sam since you haven't told me a damn thing about this case." Dean gave him the angry eyebrows.  
"Dean, give it a _rest_. Two seconds flat, we get this bracelet, fling it in a box and ship it to Bobby-"  
"Or what'll happen? Huh?"

Sam's eyes flicked heavenward.  
"So what one morning, you wake up and say 'screw Scotland let's drive for 8 hours into England' to chase down some doodle you drew? Sorry man I need more than that now before you draggin' crazies into my car."  
"Because I don't know Dean." Sam said though teeth gritted.

"I had a… This dream. And the dream was about a girl, and that bracelet. She's going to use it to summon an army, an armada of…"  
"Yes?" Dean motioned with his hand for him to continue. Sam coughed over his sentence.  
"Dead people."  
"What?"  
"Zombies, Dean, zombies."  
"Right, right so; how do we stop it?" His impatience shone through like a spotlight in a prisoner of war camp. "We've done zombies before, let me at them."

Sam stayed quiet.

"What's wrong? Are these Croats? Worse?"  
"This is bigger." Sam rubbed hand over his face. "We've done small scale, I mean like 5, 6?"  
"Aw come on, surely not so many we can't deal-"  
"Do some math. Population is just over sixty mil here, the death rate's about 2 people a minute, then times that by pretty much all time and that's the magic number…"

Dean's casual face fell off, crinkling up trying to do some hard-core mathematics.

"That's- that's a lot."  
"Millions. Upon millions."  
"How the heck'd you know all that?" Dean couldn't hide his admiration for Sam's inner nerd.  
"Millions yeah, that's just in this _county_. Over the whole country, the whole world…" Sam shook his head fiercely, not even wanting to begin counting. "And I've got this feeling, right here," he thumped his own gut emphatically. "That we're already too late."

"Now hang on a sec you said we get this thing and 'fling it in a box' and that's it, show's over." Dean looked earnestly stressed.  
"I don't know that for sure, all I've got to go on is what I saw in my head. Tonight I know something big's goin' down here. I just didn't know it was _here_ until we got on that plane."  
"Whoa, whoa hold on. Is your psychic whatever is it comin' back?" Realisation spread over Dean's features. "Have you been on the red juice again?"  
"No, Dean, no. I haven't." Sam said hotly.

Dean looked like he wanted to argue, but held his tongue.

"Anyway, back on track; long story short this girl is gonna do somethin' with this magic bracelet of yours and raise the dead."  
"All of them." Sam gave a nod.  
"But we gank her and grab this silver thing and it's all over?"  
"I hope." Sam's eyes widened suddenly, seeing the time. "Oh crap."  
"What now?"  
"It's just turned 8.00. We've gotta go."

The night air sat on her shoulders like an icy cloak, every hair on her body rising and falling with shivers as the wind cut through her. January was a cruel month, and as she struggled to stay even remotely warm so did the candles dotted around her fight to stay alight against a razor sharp winter wind.

Her wrist throbbed and ached as the ancient metal blistered her skin, begging for her to begin the ritual. Ramona cast her eyes over the green stone as patterns waltzed fiercely inside of it, making her hand drag the twig in her hand into the mud. The sigil was done, it was 8.00 on the dot.

She plunged her bracelet-wearing hand in the centre of the hand-drawn pattern and a pulse rippled through her. A clap of thunder tore through the perfectly still sky, a dose of hail crashing down to earth like a jeweller with Parkinson's and a bag of tiny diamonds. Her body went limp and she slithered to the ground, knees sinking deep into the muddy symbol. The hail struck her goosepimpled skin and she relished each tiny burn with a smile splashed on her face, catching it in her hands. Her palms were suddenly forced together and she was yanked back on her feet by a giant man with giant hands.

With Dean restraining her, Sam lashed the girl with holy water which, other than agitating her even more, had no effect.  
"You can't stop me now! You can't stop me now!" She chorused gleefully right before Dean did stop her and clamped his hand over her mouth.  
"The hell is this?" Dean inclined his head towards the ritualistic set-up.  
"I-I don't know." Sam could feel sparking across his brain, a sign he was due for a vision.  
"Well quick, draw it or somethin'."

With his small black Moleskine he used for making himself look more official when posing as a federal agent Sam frantically scribbled down the symbols scraped into the mud. As an afterthought, he also drew the lit candles placed around them in a complete circle (including the ones they two of them had knocked down when they'd swooped in and grabbed Ramona).

Sam then glazed over, staring at the harsh pencil marks on the page and slowly met Dean's eyes.  
"We're too late."


	5. Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

 _Meanwhile, 3,500 miles away…_

 _New York City, 3.00pm EDT, 12_ _th_ _January 2010_

Sunlight bounced from building to building in the afternoon sun, a sight so pretty that it seemed a shame to have to squint. It was a day that had an air of cheerfulness to it, the bitter weather had eased a bit and most of the tourists had gone home now the New Year's ball had dropped. All was good, all was relatively calm again for the city that never sleeps, verging on tranquil. It was one of those days that would make you proud to be a New Yorker. That is except for one person…

"Aw crap." A blob of ketchup fell from Sara Pezzini's quarter pounder with cheese onto her purple jumper and she rubbed it with a paper napkin furiously. Oh, great, now it was on her sleeve too. She tossed the napkin aside with a bitter grumble. Why she still bothered having a 'favourite jumper' she'd never know.

"Someone's tetchy today." Gabriel commented as Sara licked a finger and rubbed the red stain vigorously.  
"Shut up." She muttered, giving up trying to save having to get the thing dry cleaned and returned to her burger, more ketchup slopping out as she bit deep into it. "Dante's near snowed me under with work, I dropped my cell down the toilet this morning, I've just utterly _ruined_ this Lipsy sweater that I had to go to freakin' Ploughkeepsie for and this stupid bracelet has been givin' me grief. Again. Plus it's too freakin' cold."

Sara rubbed her wrist hard. God it hurt.  
"I'm this bracelet's bitch right now. Slave to a friggin' hunk of metal…" Gabriel ceased to exist, she was just wittering away to herself as he watched her cradle her wrist whilst he wrestled with his burger, trying to keep it all together.

A white hot bolt of pain cut straight across her wrist like someone had taken a meat clever and whacked it straight across where the Witchblade sat, Sara opening her mouth in a silent scream then clamping her teeth down on her lip so hard and fast that it bled.

"Whoa Sara, you good?" Gabriel snatched her hand and examined it. "Holy shit, it's burning."  
"Eat your burger wiseass." She wrung her wrist out, the pain gone as soon as it had come. But still it throbbed against her skin, the metal hot and her flesh feeling singed. "I'm fine." She assured him as he stared bog-eyed at her, wiping the dribble of blood from her chin. What did he expect her to do, roll around the floor in a fit of agony in the middle of McDonalds?

Slowly he returned to chewing his way through the greasy goodness in his hands. Sara looked scolding at the Witchblade.

 _What are you playin' at, 'tree of knowledge branch'? I have other shit to do besides babysit you all day. Quit whinin'._

For that she got another lash of pain, but she rode it out.

 _Stupid hunka metal…_

 _And back in Surrey with the Winchesters…_

With zero warning Ramona lurched towards Sam's belt and pulled out his machete and sliced her hand clean off, a sharp scream piercing the night loud enough to bust ear drums for miles around. The hand landed with a squelch into the mud. Dean clamped a hand over her mouth to absorb the bloodcurdling sound.

Sam grabbed a nearby twig and prodded the hand.  
"Should- should we do something? Pick up the?..."

Dean looked at the amputated limb with a grimace.  
"Well, we're gonna need it at some point I bet."  
"You do it."  
"No, you do it."  
"You do it!"  
"No, _you_."  
" _You!"_  
"Sam I'm stoppin' Crazy from bleedin' out over here just pick up the friggin' hand already." Dean jerked his head angrily towards the hand.

Sam grumbled incoherently under his breath and delicately picked up the still-warm body part by the index finger.  
"Agh God," Sam put his sleeve to his face, suppressing a gag. "I'll put this in the trunk."

As Sam sprinted towards the Impala holding the offending limb as far from his body as he could. Dean got himself ready to attend to an injury site gushing with blood. Except, there wasn't one. The wound had cauterised itself, a red clot type thing at the end of the stump.  
"Well that's weird." By this point Dean couldn't even be bothered to feel surprised.

The girl had gone silent and was completely still in his arms, so Dean experimentally removed his hand. Once his hand was gone, he could see a huge smirk growing on her face. It got him wondering who might be in there playing jazz.  
"Hey, black eyes, start talkin'" He stared hard into its face, but all he got back was that smirk. "Well, have it your way." Dean pulled the top of the printed page out of his jeans pocket and started to read. " _Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus…"_

From the girl there was no reaction. He pulled away from her gross grin and tutted.  
"Hey Sam!" Dean screeched behind him.  
"What?" Sam slammed the boot shut, nose still wrinkled in disgust.  
"You print this thing right?"  
"Sure did, same one we've used since, like, ever." Sam came up behind him, tilting his head and reading the exorcism, mouth lopsided in confusion.  
"Not workin'."  
"Not a demon then?"  
"Then what, human whack job?" The girl blinked, and Dean shivered in slight repulsion. "Been a long time since we've had one of those."

Sam was no longer listening. He was staring at something and he'd gone all rigid.  
"Uh, uh Dean." Sam pointed across the field. Dean and Ramona's focus joined Sam's.  
"They're coming." Ramona growled in delight. Another ominous clap of thunder sounded, as if on cue, as a figure bled into the horizon.

Its clothes were coated in dirt and centuries old, but otherwise completely pristine. Skin falling from its body as it limped clumsily towards them, moaning and groaning like every step caused agony.

The walking corpse nearly fell over four times before it had even got 100 yards in front of the three of them. It was so lame and clumsy that Sam raised his handgun fearlessly and shot at the thing's skull. It collapsed instantly, letting out one last groan that sounded almost like a thank you.

It was so unimpressive that Sam snorted and Dean started to laugh so hard he started choking on his own saliva. Ramona's face remained unchanged all the while Sam and Dean carried on giggling away as the invalid zombie raised its hand a few times in a last ditch attempt to crawl over to them.  
"Oh wow." Dean wiped away an imaginary tear and collected himself. "Now we've seen the cavalry charge I think it's time we bundled you in the car and sorted out all this weird crap. Come on Crazy."

Dean tried leading Ramona away like a dog on a lead but instead she bit him on the hand and ran.  
"Gaddamnit! Sammy! Go after her." Dean clamped his hand in his other and Sam chased after her. However he soon changed his mind.

Charging across the next field and beyond was a sea of walking dead, dressed in everything from Victorian wedding dresses to 80's heavy metal t-shirts. "Sammy!" Dean stalked angrily over to Sam, wondering why the hell he had stopped. Then he saw the _real_ cavalry charge.

"Crap." The boys uttered in unison.  
"C-car?" Sam suggested, unable to tear his eyes off the undead army.  
"Car. Now!" Dean grabbed Sam's sleeve and sprinted back to the impala, the fastest of the zombies in hot pursuit behind them.

Dean launched himself into the driver's side as Sam jumped over the hood of the car onto the passenger's side, shutting the door just as zombies slammed into the car, hammering at the windows, Dean fearing for the paintwork as the body was rammed into by an ever increasing horde. Dean was doing an inconveniently poor job of starting the car as the corpses sprawled on the windscreen and top of the car, trying to bang their way through the fibreglass roof.

"Dean!" Sam squealed. Dean floored it and the Impala's radio screamed into life with a guitar solo from one of John's old mixtapes. Wheels screeched in protest as the car crashed through dozens upon dozens of zombies.  
"I can't see a damn thing!" Dean had driven a few hundred feet but they were relentless, Dean running over one lot as another load of zombies charged into the car. On impulse Sam flicked the windscreen wipers on. "Thanks a friggin' bunch Sammy, I can see perfectly now!" Dean's sarcasm was sharp as he reversed into a tonne of more zombies, finally breaking free of the crowd to stop blindly lurching from field to road.


	6. Chapter 5

CHAPTER FIVE

 _8:11 pm_

Sam rolled into the back seat, dragging out a shotgun from the footwell and aiming out of the back windscreen.  
"Sammy do _not_ shoot at my car!"

The back window shattered as Sam pumped out two hot shells. Glass blew into Sam's face and Dean's hair. Dean scowled, gripping the wheel tighter, chanting a mantra in his head: ' _I will not hit my brother, I will not hit my brother.'_

Sam did his best to keep a sharp eye with Dean's driving and almost no light what-so-ever, aiming for the heads and downing a few. He was unsure if they were dead though; they hadn't dealt with this new-breed before. Sam drew the gun back for a second.

"Dean?"  
"What?"  
"Where are we actually going?"

Dean was tempted to say 'as far the hell away from here', but stopped to consider Sam's point.

"Uh, I dunno." Dean replied after some laboured thinking. "Ramona girl?"

Sam let off a couple more rounds, sliding his hand into the back of the seat pocket for a re-load.  
"No." Sam punctuated his sentence with a clean headshot. "We'll never find her, not enough light."

"Well what else do you suggest?" Dean was pushing 70 mph at this point. God those bastards were quick.  
"I'm runnin' out fast. We need to… I, we need…" He faltered. "Bobby?"  
"What the friggin' hell can Bobby do to help?"  
"I'm thinking Dean!" Sam crunched on his teeth as he blasted more zombies off the road. "We need help, someone, _anyone_. It's not like we've got a crap-tonne of gas any more. We can't keep going like this for long." _Before we get mauled to death._

Sam looked despairingly at his last four shells.

"Well where Sam? Who?" Dean helplessly gestured out the window as an expanse of green fields zipped past. "Farmer Giles? One of his freakin' cows?"

Sam sucked in a bitter breath, taking out another fully-dressed thin-skinned dead thing lashing towards the car bumper. Sam scanned the scenery through the back window, searching past the fields, including the sea of skeletal heads.

Just beyond a high row of wild bushes he made out distant lights of an impressive brick-built property. He pointed a decided finger towards it.

"There. We go there."

 _8:11 pm_

Bryce wanted a biscuit. From under the coffee table he slid his feet inside a well-loved pair of Wallace and Grommit slippers and slip slopped into the kitchen. Just as his fingers brushed the underside of the snack cupboard Hillary passed a black sack to him without missing a beat.

"Hillary," Bryce groaned. "It's raining rocks outside. Can't it wait 'til t'morra?"  
"You'll forget. You'll forget, we'll miss bin day and we'll all be stuck with it for another two weeks. And it will stay in your trailer until then." He took up a sponge and started vigorously scrubbing down the hob.  
"You _can't_ make me go out in that. It's child abuse, I'll die. I'll call Childline." He retorted.  
"Bryce, you're 34. Take it out."

Glowering, he tied a knot in the bag.

From the coat stand out in the entrance hall Bryce struggled to unhook his biggest, meanest, most vibrant orange windbreaker and wrestled inside of it. He didn't like being outside at the best of times. Let alone when there was machine gun fire falling from the sky. He concluded pretty quickly that Hillary obviously completely hated him.

Doing a mincing little techie sprint Bryce lifted the bin lid and flung the bag in like a well-executed dance move, trundling the wheelie bin up to the gate for collection. Kicking the bin forward the last few inches, Bryce dusted his hands off and spun on his heel. He froze upon hearing a grotesque groaning gargling sound from just beyond the gate.

 _That was a fox._ Bryce told himself. _Foxes make noises like that… Foxes… Scream. Yeah._

He carried on back towards the manor. The fox sounded again, moaning darkly. This time he turned back and caught a movement in the shadows. Fuck, fuck it was coming towards him. It didn't look very fox shaped - it had shoes on. _God_ he was an idiot.

"You alright?" Bryce nervously ventured, putting a foot forward. The man's neck whipped round and greeted Bryce with two eyeless sockets. A breath got stuck in Bryce's throat. Not believing himself he took two reluctant steps forward. The eyeless-man clanged into the metal bars of the gate and Bryce staggered backwards in shock and landed straight on the gravel.

"Flippin' heck." Two more ran into the gate and dumbly stood there, frustrated at the obstruction. He blinked at them curiously. It was only as the bastards started to climb the railings did Bryce get up off his backside and consider making a run for it.

With his heart in his mouth he darted towards the manor, a disastrous clanging of metal sounding behind him that forced his head to snap back round.  
"Fuck!" A car had busted through the front gates and swerved up behind him, two plaid-wearing beefcakes steeping out with guns aimed at him.

"Do you live here?"

Bryce stuck his hands in the air and nodded in terror.

"Then run."

Bryce didn't need telling twice. He sprinted off as fast as his body was physically able but the other two overtook him in double time and half the effort. Bryce slammed a big red button on the keypad and frantically punched in a series of numbers until a jarring alarm started and the heavy doors unlocked themselves. Bryce ushered them inside and slammed the door shut behind them, sealing off the rag-clad creature lumbering towards them.

"Who the hell are you?" Bryce asked, hands on his knees trying to suck back in the equivalent of his own body weight in oxygen.  
"Thousands have risen from the grave to attack and that's the first thing you ask?" Said the shortest plaid-wearer.

"Bryce what the hell is going on?" Lara stamped up to him furiously, hands on hips and Hillary at her side. "And who on Earth are they?"  
"I'm Sam, this is my brother Dean." Introduced the taller plaid-wearer.  
"And that out there is everyone's worst nightmare." Dean pointed back to the door.

"Did you take the bins out?" Hillary asked with a cursory glance to each brother.  
"Yes Hillary I took the bloody bins out, I nearly lost a limb doing it but-" Oh, what was the point.

"Does anybody want to explain or?..." Lara dipped her shoulders and waited for a response. A hand shot through the letterbox which Dean shooed back out again with a slam from the back of his pistol. Two fingers dropped onto the doormat and the rest of the hand slithered back out again.  
"Does that answer your question?" Dean looked at Lara with an eyebrow up. She opened her mouth with a crinkled brow but found there was nothing rational to say. "Good. Barricade that door."


	7. Chapter 6

CHAPTER SIX

"Split up, shut everything." Dean ordered whilst Sam unzipped his backpack and tossed a weapon each to Lara and Hillary.  
"Why don't I get one?" Bryce asked.  
"You're an idiot, that's why. Fix up the kitchen." Lara said as she flew up the stairs. Bryce sighed in exasperation.

"I'm all out. I'm sure you can find something. You've got a fireplace right there, a poker maybe?" Sam suggested.  
"It's electric. No probs though, I'll just nip down to the armoury."  
"Sure." Sam smiled tightly, not having time for English humour.

"So these things can kill us?" Hillary said whilst dubiously studying Sam's revolver in his hands.  
"Not just can. Are. Get going, cover the windows." Dean nodded toward the door. Face etched with doubt Hillary hesitantly followed Bryce into the kitchen.

Dean started going upstairs.  
"Dean? What are you doing?"  
"I'm following the chick. Stay down here, keep an eye on Laurel and Hardy."

"Crikey." Bryce gasped as he was met with about a dozen rotting faces at the kitchen window above the sink.  
"Help me turn this table over." Hillary beckoned Bryce over and started pushing against the polished oak. They got it upside-down and lifted it up to cover the window. The hands were still pounding on the glass hard enough that the table against it vibrated, the pair of them already certain more had come.

"What about the little one?" Bryce pointed at the kitchen's second, smaller window underneath which a faux bonsai tree sat.  
"Chopping board."  
"Chopping board? Are you alright in the head?"  
"Bloody hell Bryce have you got a better suggestion because that certainly would be a first."  
"The fridge?" Bryce said it like the most obvious thing in the world.  
"Good idea."

The two of them heaved the fridge in front of the window, Hillary carefully placing the plastic plant inside the crockery cupboard. In the meantime they could hear the glass was busting behind the table.

Hillary and Bryce crouched behind the two cupboards set underneath the kitchen units. Bryce was routing through one flinging out Bakelite cookware and gravy boats. Hilary watched curiously.  
"What are you doing?"  
"Self-preservation." Bryce took a metal colander and fitted it firmly on his head. "Want one?"  
"Do you enjoy looking like an idiot as well as acting like one?"  
"What have I done? The zombie apocalypse is on and _everyone_ just wants to rip the piss out of me."

Whilst they were bickering the table crashed to the floor behind them.  
"Christ almighty."  
"Give me that." Hillary snatched the other colander in time for the glass to blow out. He got up and leant on the units on his elbows, aligning the gun to the thing crawling through the splintered glass. There were a series of clicks and nothing happened.

"It's got no bullets." Hillary threw the gun at the window and it bounced into the sink. "Damn it to hell." He slid back down beside Bryce. "Bryce, look in the big cupboard where the mop is."  
"Why?"  
"The golf clubs, get the golf clubs now!"

Bryce raced over to the big cupboard and knocked over the broom, floor mop and sewing supplies to grab Hillary's golf bag. He tore out a driver and smacked at the first one that came through the broken window. From out of nowhere its dead brains splattered all over the kitchen and it collapsed to the ground.

Tall plaid-man had arrived; with a smoking shot-gun.

"Are you okay?" Sam shot his glance from Bryce to Hillary, checking for bites. He spied the colanders. "What are you wearing?"  
"We're being resourceful, but we'd love to get out of here." Bryce said as he beat in another one. Sam shot down three more that had limbs poking in through the window frame and helped Bryce cover it back up with the table.

Bryce looked at his bloodied golf clubs pensively.

"You know I do have a better plan for this eventuality." Bryce said.  
"Which is?"  
"Panic room."  
"And why exactly did you not say that earlier?"  
The table wobbled and Sam and Bryce leapt forwards to push it back into place.

"I'm stupid." He shot a look to Hillary, who then rolled his eyes.  
"You did withhold that to prove a point? We could have all died." Hillary said in disbelief.  
"And we still will if we don't get a move on." Sam pointed out. "Take us there."


End file.
